I have always been a great fan of Barbara Bush. I like her spunk and her independent
sense of style. When her memoir
came out, I had to read it. Until
then, I had been unaware that George and Barbara had a daughter that had died of
leukemia when she was three.
George wrote a letter to his mother quite some time after their Robin’s
death. His description of how a
girl had radically altered their rambunctious house of four boys resonated with
me. I understood. I loved everything about raising sons. I could never understand my friends’
complaining about how “difficult” boys are. I love the male mystique and how they can solve everything
with a rowdy wrestling match. But
the arrival of our baby girl left a lasting imprint on our house as well. George H.W. Bush gives a tender glimpse
into a daddy’s heart. I echo these
words as tribute to the profound imprint my daughter has had in our home as
well.
George writes:
“There is about our house a need. The running, pulsating restlessness of the four boys as they
struggle to learn and grow; their athletic chests and arms and legs; their
happy noises as the world embraces them… all this wonder needs a
counterpart. We need some starched
crisp frocks to go with all our torn-kneed blue jeans and helmets. We need some soft blond hair to offset
those crew cuts. We need a doll house
to stand firm against our forts and rackets and thousand ball cards. We need a cut-out star to play alone
while the others battle to see who’s the ‘family champ.’ We even need someone… who could sing
the descant to ‘Alouette,’ while outside they scramble to catch the elusive
ball aimed ever roofward, but usually thudding against the screens.
We need a legitimate Christmas
angel – one who doesn’t have cuffs beneath the dress.
We need someone who’s afraid
of frogs.
We need someone to cry when I
get mad – not argue.
We need a little one who can
kiss without leaving egg or jam or gum.
We need a girl.”
Happy birthday, sweetheart…
No comments:
Post a Comment